


Man

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A search for flowers turns dangerously awry, but Combeferre's safety is the least of his worries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stop

It was a long time before they removed the sack from his head. To his lungs, it was a relief, but it was a different matter for his eyes. The dim light stung, and although a look at his surroundings was a reprieve, the sudden glare made him dizzy. The blows had disoriented him. His captors had pushed, shoved and dragged. He retaliated, but it was difficult to make headway when he didn’t know which way was up and which was down. He remembered stairs, stairs that creaked at every step, a damp and foul smell, a door opening, its hinges badly needing an oiling, the taste of the floor, then the taste of his own blood as his lip burst. Lights piercing, images blurry, head reeling, he blinked to get a grip on his orientation, but before he could get rid of the bleariness, a solid foot landed on his torso.

There was no art in it whatsoever. It meant to hurt and it did. A grunt escaped his mouth. For a few seconds, Combeferre was on air. A brief respite from the pain for he landed hard on his knees. His hands bound, there was no way to steady himself and his face met the floor a second time. The blow had taken the wind out of him. His body craved for air and his mouth opened to swallow as much as it could. But there was no use. His throat seemed clogged, the tunnel seeming to have constricted to half its size. He started to panic.

_Small, quick breaths_ , he remembered.  _Let the throat relax._

Gradually, his lungs filled and he could concern himself with studying his assailants. There were three pairs of boots, all black and dusty. The floor was wet, the only window covered with a curtain. The light still hurt his eyes but Combeferre couldn’t care anymore; he needed to see. His eyes went back and forth, trying to use any detail to identify his captors. They had taken him while he was in the docks. Following the words of a questionable informant, he went there to acquire a rumoured new variant of the indigo bloom. He wanted to procure one for himself and cultivate it, perhaps to have Prouvaire tend to it sometimes; Prouvaire would have loved indigos. Courfeyrac warned him to proceed with caution, but he nonchalantly told him that no one would attack a man in search for flowers.

“Who commands the Society for the Rights of Man?”

He was right; they did not nab him for flowers.

With the rope biting at his wrists, Combeferre tried to sit up, to look eye to eye with these shadowy figures. He pressed his shoulder to the wall and used it to anchor himself up. It was a hard labour, but before he could even begin to utter a response, Combeferre wanted to look at them face to face. They were not as patient. One of them, the one with high-cut boots, grabbed a bulk of his shirt and shoved him against the wall. The back of his head hit the wall and the world filled with a reverberating hum.

“WHO COMMANDS THE SOCIETY FOR THE RIGHTS OF MAN?”

Without warning, Combeferre collided his forehead with the man holding him. There was pain, a small addition that to the other ones. But there was a different kind of ringing now; it entered his ears and echoed inside his head. He closed his eyes and focused on the ringing. It seemed to calm him somewhat, although it made him dizzy. The hand let go of his shirt and grabbed a fistful of hair.

“You filthy —”

Combeferre lost track of the list of slurs. There was an inordinate amount of slapping. Slap. Yank. Swear. Slap. Yank. Swear. It blurred together. His head went left and right, only to be held in place by the hand on his hair. His neck strained from the weight of his whole body. The boy, yes, boy was raising him by a few locks of hair, swearing and spitting and generally being very noisy. _Shut up,_  he tried to say, but he could barely have done so with his mouth gushing blood. Combeferre couldn’t see him clearly, for the glasses had come off as a result of the head butt. He heard it scrape across the floor to his left.

More swearing, but this time it was not directed at him. “We can’t have him faint. He needs to talk,” hissed one of the shadows.

_An interrogation then,_  he thought, _although this one seems fairly physical in nature._  Combeferre let out a chuckle. It was a reassurance that his head was functioning normally if he could still make deductions. The chuckle seized his captors’ bickering, and once again he struggled to look them in the eye. Combeferre had been told that he could give the fiercest of stares if provoked. He tried one now. Mustering the energy to spit out his blood, he said, “You will get nothing from me.”

His head rang a third time.

—-

“There exists three kinds of burns. The first is a mild burn and can be treated with salves and dressings; the second penetrates the first layer of skin and causes most pain to the patient. This can be treated in the same way as the first, but when infected, it will require pressing into the wound to expunge the pus. The third kind of burn is —”

“so severe that the patient can no longer register pain,” Joly finished for him, a tinge of green staining his pallor. “No treatment for full recovery.”

Combeferre looked at him, his expression a mix of melancholy and resignation. “Only for now,” he contemplated. “Let us hope that this century will finally find a way.”

It was a good dream, a hopeful one, certainly a better one than his current circumstances. When Combeferre awoke, the dim light had become night. He lay on his side facing the wall, hands still bound, lips swelling, stomach still aching, head possibly with multiple concussions. The walls were damp, a result of the cold wind penetrating the room. Combeferre was beginning to love this wall. They had gone through so much together. He pressed his lips to the cracked plaster to ease the swelling. The cold felt good; it made him awake. He tried to remember what happened exactly. The informant told him that a newly arrived ship carried exotic plants from around the world. It was a sailor’s story, but one that merited verifying nonetheless. He’d asked around for the ship, studied the different figureheads and masts, questioned a passing sailor for a merchant’s name, followed him to an alley, and then there was an arm around his neck. A rope. A sack over his head. A hoarse voice whispering a threat. At first, he’d thought it a normal robbery, but a robbery would have been clean and quick. It was clearly an abduction.  He tried to run blind but a cold, sharp blade found its way to his neck.

“Follow or die,” the voice had said. His last thought before receiving the first blow was how he could never get that indigo now.

“We will try again,” said a voice from behind him. It was a different one from the boy’s. The one who’d held his hair was young, had a shrill timbre when he was shouting, and was easily provoked. This one seemed more in control, more cutting, more dangerous. He rolled over to face him. If there was one thing that Combeferre was determined to do, it was to face his captors head on. He will not be stabbed in the back.

“I don’t know anything,” Combeferre growled. The hoarseness of his own voice surprised him. Concussion: to be examined, Dehydration: confirmed. “They don’t tell me anything. I’m no one. No —”

Screams.

It was the kind of scream that made hairs rise. Combeferre whipped his head around to the source, panic in his eyes. It was coming from the next room. Right through the wall.

“We shall see,” his captor said.

Another scream. And another. It came from deep inside the victim, guttural and restrained, as if he was trying to get the better of the pain. Combeferre listened, entranced. With every wail of anguish, every gasp for air, every long grunt, he shuddered uncontrollably. A foul smell filled the air.

“Stop. What are you doing? Stop!” Combeferre did not know if the plea came from him or the other man. He tried to raise himself from the floor, only to have the guard take hold of his forehead and drive it to the hard ground. This time, there was a crack, but he didn’t care. Combeferre could hardly move, but he fought. He fought with more force than before where only his own life was at stake.

“Out with the truth or he gets another brand.”

“No! Please don’t. Don’t.” Combeferre knew now that the pleas were from him. The other man would never beg, but he screamed. Oh, he screamed. The room was a vicious blur and Combeferre felt blood on his hair, but the most painful feeling was that of his heart being torn off his chest. Combeferre could not bear it, would not bear it. Anything. Anything than this. Not this. He would rather die. Let him die and have this man live. The guard was asking him something, something about a commander, but he didn’t understand. All he could hear, all he could feel was the pain being inflicted in the next room. He wept. He never wept but he did. He never begged but he did. For this one person, he would. He almost went insane. He screamed with the voice, and the voice echoed his cries. The voice was Enjolras’s.


	2. Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre attempts to come to terms with the aftermath of a truly terrible experience.

There was a room. Inside the room was a bed, and on the bed was a man. The room smelled of antiseptic. It was a familiar smell, the kind that was invasive at first and non-existent soon after. The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains. It was a beautiful day in Paris, a warm and jovial kind of day. Inside the room, it was everything but.

He was lying on a cold hospital bed. It was odd, lying on something he was usually leaning over. The gravity of his injuries earned him a private room, but instead of a privilege, it became a punishment. In a room, he was left to his thoughts.

In the end, he did not say anything, at least anything substantial. He begged. Oh, he begged. He begged them to let Enjolras go. He’d known, from that very first scream, that that was Enjolras on the other side of the wall. He would know that voice anywhere. He would know it in his sleep, would know it in a crowd, would know it coming from a metre away, even though a chunk of cracked plaster kept them apart. And yet he did not speak.

He would have offered them his own life just to stop, but never the others’, for that was what he would have done had he told them what they wanted to know. He would be selling out the Society’s future, and if he had done so to save Enjolras’s life, then he would have done his friend a disservice. He kept quiet, not in spite of Enjolras, but because of him.

Combeferre knew this. He knew that Enjolras knew, knew that he understood, but still the nightmare came. He would see himself walking the night halls of Necker, with his doctor’s apron and kit at his waist. He would stand over a patient, look him over, and move to check his pulse. But when his hands moved forward, they would carry an iron poker. The iron was white, hot, and ugly, and it illuminated the room with a sickening glow. Before he could stop himself, Combeferre would plunge the iron to the patient’s forearm. The patient would scream. He would scream and scream and scream, but Combeferre only revelled in his pain. He put his whole body weight into the brand. There was no stopping him. He laughed in manic glee. The room never smelled, and he would keep on until the flesh ceased to look like flesh. He would marvel at his work and when he turned to look at his patient’s face, he would discover that all along it was Enjolras.

He woke from the nightmares sweating and trembling. He would turn his head to see if anyone was in the room, and when no one was, he would curl into himself and sob. Anyone who walked past would have sworn that they heard the stars mourning. Combeferre simultaneously loathed and feared himself. He, who loved the word man, could no longer consider himself as one. No man could take pleasure in giving pain. He was a beast, the vilest of creatures, the most selfish of scum. His hands were no longer those of one who would relieve pain but inflict it. He was a monster hiding in sheep’s clothing, a criminal, a charlatan, a traitor to everyone who had put their trust in him. He did not deserve to be a doctor. He did not deserve to survive. He did not deserve Enjolras.

"He’s awake."

It was Courfeyrac. He would also know Courfeyrac’s voice. In the throes of a fever, he had heard it shrill and urgent. Courfeyrac, who was the most self-assured person he knew, had been afraid. There were shouts. And furniture being hacked. And punches being thrown. Somehow, he knew that gendarmes were entering the room. Everything was in chaos. But Courfeyrac was there, leaning over him like he was the doctor. Worry wrought on his face. He made himself say one thing: “Enjolras?" Courfeyrac nodded gravely. “We made it," he said. At that, Combeferre released a sob, though with relief or guilt, he did not know. On the hospital bed, curled in on himself, he did the same.

"Would you like to see him?"

—-

There was a room. Inside the room was a bed, and on the bed was a man. The room smelled of antiseptic, and the afternoon sun filtered through the curtains. It was a beautiful day in Paris, a warm and jovial kind of day. Inside the room, Enjolras stirred as he felt someone enter.

He smiled feebly at Combeferre and muttered half-awake, “Where were you?"

His voice was hoarse. Whether it was the effect of a long sleep or his sustained screams, he did not bother to know. Enjolras turned his head to Combeferre’s direction. He could not quite sit up yet. The bandage on his forearms hid the worst of his wounds, but he kept them under the blanket just as well. His already fair skin was paler than ever, and around his eyes were shadows that seemed permanently set. And yet he smiled at the man who entered the room, the man who had not made a single step towards him. 

Combeferre was immovable. He did not dare.

"Combeferre?"

Nothing.

"Would you come nearer?"

He took one step.

Enjolras began to worry. Of the two of them, he had sustained greater injuries, but Combeferre looked the worse for it. His eyes were wild, his body shook like a leaf, his knuckles were white from gripping the crutch. Combeferre looked like he was about to burst.

Suddenly, a hand was on his shoulder. Combeferre knew it was Courfeyrac before he could see him. Strong, stable Courfeyrac sent from heaven. Courfeyrac gently pushed, and Combeferre had no choice but to step forward. The sound of his crutch dominated his ears. Creak, click, step. Any moment now. Creak, click, step. He was nearing the bed. The firebrand will appear now. Creak, click, step. He did not dare look at his hands. They started to get heavy. He was three feet away from the bed. Creak, click, step. He closed his eyes and stopped in his tracks. He put all his weight on the crutch. Courfeyrac nudged him gently but he kept still. This was a dream. This had to be a dream. Let it be the nightmare as long as it remained a nightmare. He could not hurt Enjolras a second time.

But he felt something touch his hand, something heavy and familiar. And warm. Fear crawled from his gut to the end of his toes. He remembered the screams. No. The smoke. Not again. The pleas. Combeferre, with all the will that had not been beaten out of him, yanked his hands away and bellowed a desperate “No!"

The crutch crashed on the floor with a thud. When Combeferre opened his eyes, he found that he had backed several feet away from the bed. His friends looked at him with stricken expressions. Enjolras’s right hand nursed his left, as if someone had swatted it away violently. The sudden movement caused the blanket to fall away, and there for all to see were Enjolras’s injuries.

Realization struck Combeferre, and he dropped to his knees.

—-

Overwhelmed by guilt, he had grabbed hold of Enjolras’s hand, pressed it to his forehead and wept. Combeferre shoved his face to the edge of the bed and muttered words against the linen.

"I am sorry. I am so sorry," he said between sobs, the shame preventing him from looking up.

"Combeferre." Enjolras pleaded. “Combeferre, listen to me. Look at me."

But Combeferre’s agony was impenetrable. Enjolras did the best thing he could do. He tried to sit up, and the risk to his health was enough to stir Combeferre from his despair and help him settle. Courfeyrac had long left the room. They were alone.

"There is nothing to be sorry for," Enjolras declared.

"But I failed you."

"Think, my friend,” he insisted. “Nothing was revealed. Do you think you have failed our cause?"

Combeferre was silent.

"You were strong, stronger than I could ever be. I confess that," he swallowed, “that if I were in your position, and that if you were in mine, I would have succumbed easily." He took Combeferre’s hands. “Because you are important to me, and for that, I would have thrown the results of all our efforts to save you," he pressed Combeferre’s knuckles, “led to the guillotine everyone involved in our cause to save you." He looked at Combeferre in the eye. “But you did not. And for that, you are stronger. I am but one agent in the grand scheme of things, and thus, expendable. My life is not mine; it is to the cause, and you have served it well."

Enjolras’s eyes were sad, but his words were the truth. In a way, Enjolras and Combeferre were both hypocrites, both willing to let others live for reasons that applied even to themselves. He held Combeferre’s gaze like a line pulling a man to shore.

“But,” Combeferre started, “but when you saw me, you said: ‘where were you’. You were asking me why I wasn’t there for you.”

Enjolras let out a sigh and said, “I was asking for you because I fully expected to see you when I awoke. And when you were not, I feared the worst.” Combeferre let this sink in and was overcome with relief. His chest compressed as he let out a whimper he had held for so long. Enjolras pressed his hand to the side of his face. “I need you, my friend," he said gravely. “I need you to be strong for me."

Combeferre shook his head and bowed. "You don’t deserve something like me," he uttered. They were silent for a while, until Enjolras noticed what Combeferre had said.

"Someone." he corrected.

"What?"

"You are a person, Combeferre, not a beast."

Combeferre’s shoulders shook; his very being trembled. He felt like he had been absolved of a terrible crime. He took hold of Enjolras’s hand and pressed the palm to his lips. The reverent gesture was unbecoming of who they were, but Combeferre could not let go. For the first time in what seemed like lifetimes, he felt that he was human again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who encouraged a continuation to this story, else I would have left even myself hanging.


End file.
